The Rule Of Nine Part 31

"Okay. Be right back."

The second he leaves the room, Herman and I open both bags. Dirty clothes, two pairs of shoes, one of them dress shoes polished like a mirror, a shaving kit, neatly packed, almost a.n.a.l. Herman is right. Thorn is military. Everything packed in its proper place.

"The kid didn't pack like this," I say.

"No," says Herman.

It's obvious that Thorn was getting ready to leave.

We dump everything out on the bed and start pawing through it. I check the pockets of the pants for anything left behind. They are all empty.

I slide my hand along the inside edge of the small case, into the elastic pouch where small items are sometimes stored. I find a plastic sewing kit, needles and thread, some matches, and a unique folding knife. It has a clear plastic handle through which you can see the blade.

I wonder how Thorn gets it through airport security until I open it and realize that the four-inch razor-sharp blade is ceramic. The handle is formed from a clear solid block of acrylic. To a scanner the knife would be virtually invisible.

I continue my search along the inside edge until I feel something solid rub against the back of my hand. It's not inside the elastic pouch but behind the lining of the suitcase itself. I open the ceramic knife and slice the lining of the case, reach inside, and pull out not one, but three separate pa.s.sports: one French, one British, and the last one U.S. I open them. They all have the same photograph of Thorn but different names.

"From my recollection, they look better than the ones you and I bought down in Costa Rica," says Herman. "And a much clearer picture of the man. No wonder he wants the suitcase back." Herman grabs all three of the pa.s.sports and slips them into his pocket.

We're running out of time. I hear the kid coming up the stairs.

Herman grabs the knife, folds it up, and slips it into his pocket. "Keep goin', I'll keep him busy." He steps out into the hallway. A second later I hear the two of them talking, this time in Spanish, down the hall near the head of the stairs.

I run my hand along the liner until I feel something else. It's not a pa.s.sport. It's too small. I try to reach it with my fingers through the slit in the lining, but I can't quite get it.

I look for the knife and realize it's gone. The voices are moving this way.

Herman tells Pablo he wants to check out. He tries to draw him back toward the stairs.

"Okay, but I should lock up," says Pablo. "I must not leave Seor Johnston's bags unattended."

I rip the lining and reach inside. It's a small black book the size of a pocket calendar. I don't have time to open it. I just jam it in my pocket and start throwing clothes and shoes, the shaving kit, all of it in a jumbled mess inside the suitcases. I zip up the large bag, set it on the floor, and pull the zipper around on the smaller one just as I hear them approach the doorway. I set it on the floor, then turn and smile.

"Did you get the address?" I ask.

"Absolutely," says Herman. "Pablo is very efficient and professional. He a.s.sures me that he said nothing to Seor Johnston about our efforts to serve him."

"Good man," I tell him.

"Of course, that is your business," says Pablo. "When I give my word, it is important that I keep it."

"Yes, indeed," says Herman. "Let's let Pablo lock up so I can go down and check out. Then we gotta get out of here."

"Yes, we do," I tell him.

Less than an hour later, we're back in the room at the Hotel Melia. Joselyn dries her hair with a towel and watches over my shoulder as Herman and I pore over the booty from Thorn's suitcases.

Herman opens up one of the pa.s.sports and shows her a more current picture of Thorn.

"He hasn't changed much at all," she says. "That's how I remember him from Seattle. Dorian Gray."

"What's this, I wonder?" I'm looking through the little black book. The first page is covered in a long series of numbers, dark blue ink pressed firmly into the paper as if the writer has a tendency to push too hard.

"It looks like a code of some kind," says Joselyn.

There is a separate set of numbers on each line.

"Could be dates," says Joselyn.

"What do you mean? There're too many numbers on each line," I say.

"Turn the page," she says.

I do it and the numbers continue, for two more pages. The writing is precise, very neat, but looks hard, as if the ballpoint engraved itself in the fine paper.

"What it looks like to me is a series of dates," says Joselyn, "at least the first six numbers on each line. Look, they're set off by a s.p.a.ce from the rest of the numbers on the line. It's like two columns. The dates could be international style, not like we do it in the States. The number of the day followed by the number of the month, and then the last two digits for the year."

"Then what's the rest of it?" I ask. "The other numbers?"

Joselyn uses her finger and counts the numbers on each line. "a.s.suming the first six numbers represent dates, then there are ten additional numbers on each line. Could be phone numbers," she says. "Area code and then seven more for the local number. Give me a second," she says.

She tosses the towel on the bed and gets her cell phone out of her purse. "Take the numbers on the first line, forget the first six and just give me the last ten," she says.

I read them to her and she keys them into her phone. She listens for a second, then hangs up. "Nope. It's disconnected. Give me the next one."

We try again.

"No, it can't be phone numbers, must be something else," she says.

I flip the pages. "Not necessarily. Try this one." I read it to her and watch as she dials.

I hear it ring. She gives me a wide-eyed look and a thumbs-up. It answers, a kind of synthesized voice, not human but computer generated. It is loud enough to make out the words from where I am sitting. "Speak clearly in order to be identified."

"h.e.l.lo," says Joselyn. Suddenly the line goes dead. She looks at her phone. "I think I dropped the call."

"Let me try." I dial the same number on my cell, get the same synthesized voice with the same message "Speak clearly in order to be identified." The second I say, "Who is this?" it hangs up.

"What is it?" says Herman.

"It must be set up on some kind of voice-identification system," I tell him. "If the wrong person calls in, it hangs up. It's obviously a system for Thorn to communicate with someone. Probably a backup copy. He must have another one he works from and keeps this one in the suitcase in case he loses it."

"How come that number answered but the other ones didn't?" says Joselyn.

"It's the phone number for today's date," I tell her. "And there is one more for the day after tomorrow, and that's it."

"So what does that mean?" she says.

"Either Thorn gets another set of communication codes," says Herman, "or else by then whatever he's up to is gonna be finished. What's today's date?"

"October second," I say.

"So that means the fourth, which is what, Monday?"

"Yeah," I say.

"And all we know, at least according to Pablo, is that sometime Monday his luggage is supposed to be in Was.h.i.+ngton. What's the name of the hotel?" I ask.

"The Was.h.i.+ngton Court," says Herman.

"I know it well," says Joselyn. "It's right downtown, walking distance to the Capitol."

"So what do we do?" I slowly flip each page of the little book as we talk. After the code, the book is blank, not a mark on it.

"Be a waste of time to call the cops again," says Herman. "We tell them that Thorn's still alive, they're just gonna say so what. That means he wasn't on the plane. As far as they're concerned, maybe he wasn't even involved in it."

"I agree," says Joselyn. "Listen, if Thorn's headed to Was.h.i.+ngton, why don't you let me make a phone call. I have a contact who I believe should be able to get some action."

"Who's that?" says Herman.

"I can't tell you. You'll have to trust me. But I know he can reach all the way to the highest levels of the Justice Department."

"You got that kind of juice, do it," says Herman. "You have any problem with that?" Herman looks at me.

"One question. Will we be able to get information back from your contact?" I ask her.

"What do you mean?" she says.

"I mean, if they pick up Thorn in D.C. and he lawyers up, we may lose any hope of identifying or locating Liquida. Will you be able to get information from your man regarding Liquida?"

"That's a good point. Let me find out," she says.

"Go ahead and call him," I tell her.

Joselyn takes her phone and heads into the bathroom. She closes the door to make her call.

"Secretive," says Herman.

"I suspect that's her big source on weapons systems," I tell him. "That's how she got all the details after the attack in Coronado. Leaks from friends in high places."

I reach the last page of the little book, not a single mark, only the communications code on the first three pages. I'm about to flip it onto the table when I notice that the last page has been ripped out. The front and back cover of the moleskin pocket book is stiffened with cardboard.

"Herman, do me a favor. In my briefcase you'll find a pencil in the pocket up top. Get it for me, will you?"

Herman gets the pencil as I examine the inside of the back cover, holding it up at an angle to the light.

"Whatya find?" Herman hands me the pencil.

"I don't know. Have you got that knife?"

Herman fishes it out of his pocket. "I want it back," he says.

"I found it," I tell him.

"I'll arm-wrestle you for it."

"I value my elbow joint too much. You can keep it." I open the knife and shave the pencil point on one side to expose more of the lead. Then I take the flat edge of the pencil and rub it gently back and forth over the impression carved in the white paper covering the inside of the back cover of the little book. Slowly the writing from the missing page emerges in the form of white letters from the growing panel of slate gray graphite. It is in the same neat hand as the coded numbers: "Waters of Death, Second Road, Pattaya, Thailand." A group of numbers follow, nine digits in all, separated in sets of three with a s.p.a.ce between each set, and the name "J. Snyder, 214 S. Pitt St., Alexandria, VA."

FORTY-TWO.

Liquida found himself bundled onto the last evening flight out of Columbus, Ohio, the seven o'clock headed for Dulles, in D.C. He'd received the e-mail that afternoon that his services were needed on another job and he wasn't happy about it.

He had spent the last three days and a chunk of his own change watching the small farm outside Groveport where Madriani's daughter and his law partner were holed up. The little GPS tracker that Liquida had mailed to the girl had done its job. The device was so sensitive that at times he was able to follow it in transit, even in the package. The second she opened the box, the tiny tracker gave Liquida a readout including lat.i.tude, longitude, and street address, and then plotted it all on a map. And if she had swallowed the thing, Liquida was sure that it would have performed an upper GI series.

He believed firmly that technology was a wonderful thing, as long as he didn't have to use it. It was why he didn't carry a cell phone, and why he changed his e-mail address more often than his underwear. Anything science could make, government could abuse.

He had staked out the farmhouse and identified the girl's daily schedule. She never left the place. And the old man who owned the farm had friends. Half the time the driveway out in front of the house looked like a police convention. If Liquida had a dime for every car with a set of light bars on top that visited the house, he could have retired.

If that wasn't enough, there were dogs, and not just any kind. The farmer raised Doberman pinschers. Liquida wasn't a "dog kind of guy," and he hated any breed that was German. You could poison most junkyard hounds. But a forty-dollar hunk of Chateaubriand salted with enough Ambien to put an elephant down wouldn't raise an eyebrow on a good Doberman. And if you were stupid enough to cross the line and try to hand-feed him, you'd better be wearing a Kevlar body stocking.

The last time Liquida had tangled with a pinscher he'd ended up with his head in the dog's jaws, being humped and thrashed like a stuffed bunny. Until the dog finally let go of his head, Liquida thought he was engaged, well on his way to becoming Muerte Liquida-Doberman. And he wasn't anxious for a rematch.

But these dogs were confined by an invisible fence. A wire circled the property and was buried just inches under the ground. It emitted a signal that was picked up by a diode on the dog's collar whenever it got within a few feet of the wire. If the dog tried to cross the wire, the animal would get a severe jolt of low-amperage electricity. The dogs had been trained and conditioned to stay inside the fence.

By now Liquida knew the precise boundaries of the invisible fence. He watched the property from a tree in an empty field across the road.

For the last two days, Madriani's daughter had slipped into a pattern. Each morning around eight she would come out of the house carrying a colander to pick berries from some wild bushes that ran along the front of the property.

Madriani's law partner would come out with her carrying a shotgun. But he usually sat on a chair on the front porch and kept an eye on her from a distance. And each day, as the berries became spa.r.s.er, the girl wandered farther. She was already within the warning zone of the invisible fence. The dogs no longer followed her. By tomorrow she would be outside the fence and fair game for a needle-sharp stiletto hiding in the brush.

Liquida had been called away, but at least he knew where she was, and from all appearances, she wasn't going to leave. He could only hope and pray that the berries would hold out until he got back.

Thorn approached the U.S. Capitol Building from the north, walking toward what many tourists called the back of the immense, sprawling structure, the steps on the east side.

He had spent Sat.u.r.day finis.h.i.+ng up the logos on the 727 and arranging for the delivery of a truckload of Jet A fuel from the airport on the east side of Vieques Island. After pumping the tanks full and paying for the fuel, Thorn hitched a ride with the driver of the tanker back to the airport, where he caught a flight to San Juan, and from there to Was.h.i.+ngton.

It was now late Sunday night. The area around the Capitol was quiet, but well lit. Thorn was carrying an attache case. He had lied to the two Saudi pilots on board the plane back in Vieques about many things, including their ultimate objective. As far as he was concerned, they didn't need to know. And as long as he was packing the item in the briefcase, Thorn was in control.

At Capitol Street he turned left, away from the domed monolith, and headed instead toward the intersection of First Street. He ended up kitty-corner from the Library of Congress and stopped at the traffic light. Standing at the curb waiting for the light to change he had to keep himself from looking up.

Thorn knew that he was being watched and, no doubt, recorded by at least three or four, and maybe as many as half a dozen, surveillance cameras.

He was standing in the middle of Government Square. Except for the area around the White House and parts of North Korea, it was probably the most heavily watched patch of ground on earth.